The Inner Voice
by thefishoutofwater
Summary: In which our characters find they know the truth even wihtout words. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Still stuck on post marionette land (damn sky and damn my principles of not buying on line!). As such this is good until post marionette although from what I have seen on line I sense I am still in cannon!

Not mine.

* * *

Every day could be the last. It sounds like a platitude; the kind of thing that other people say. Yet for her, having seen and felt all that the world(s) can offer it is real. Painstakingly real. Every day could be the end. Period. Full stop. She has seen it. Been there, in that moment one too many times. Knows that the odds are no longer on her side. Oscillates with the understanding that losing isn't just her failure but the snuffing out of everything she knows. Of everyone. The future hangs in her hands.

Increasingly for her the idea of 'An End' is almost cathartic. Implies a finale that could be satisfying; a warm, drifting, soothing ending. One of solitude. One that shouts out that she ended where she began. Alone...peaceful.. free of trouble...weightless. And yet she worries that this end for her means the same for everyone. That her escape might mean nothingness forever. For all.

She has never been the kind of girl who dreamed of forevers. No. Not the kind of girl (nay woman her inner voice proclaims) who believed in happily ever after. A practical sort who knew that the firestorm of kicks, of fists, of midnight visits, was all about surviving. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just making it until tomorrow. Yet here she is in that tomorrow and she feels curiously short changed. Detached. It all seems irrelevant. Like her surviving may not have been the prize it seemed. Might not have been the goal.

Despite it all, despite everything she knew; had seen, she Fell. So obvious. Too obvious. It wasn't fast. She didn't even fall hard. It happened slowly. It crept up on her. On him. Happened in the quiet moments. The down time. Started when he smirked at her; continued when he was there when she opened her eyes in a hospital bed. Happened when, without warning, he was the 'go to' number. Then before she'd realised it there was the certain knowledge that life without him wasn't really a life at all. So then she made her Grand Gesture...Here her self-loathing knows no bounds. Here, in the honest, silent moments after midnight, she acknowledges that as Grand Gestures go leaving your family, your life, home, is It. To leave your everything in favour of another universe has to be the ultimate statement. Says more really than hanging out banners and buying cakes. Says more than uncomfortable lingerie, than veined interest in anothers hobbies. More than rings on fingers (or in jewellery boxes). What kind of man turns that down? What kind of man turns down a woman who would do all that? For him?

No one would. No man. Not even the one she thought was hers. Sarcasm doesn't protect her from the truth. Cynicism doesn't work in a situation like this one. The rancour doesn't ease the pain. Despondency doesn't bring a damn thing. Doesn't help hide the the fact is she is as alone as she has ever been. She played her cards; took the gamble and it didn't work. Didn't pay out. The big bold gesture veiled everything. For her it was too little too late. For him it was everything. He had thought he had her. Thought he'd won the jackpot. She was his. For just a fraction of time.

She tortures herself now...imagines... remembers...dreams...She remembers with startlingly recall that night, in the Other Place. The night when she pushed forward. When her lips were on his. When she laid herself bare for him. Recalls how difficult it was to meet his eyes and confess. Confess what she had done wrong. Stuttering over trying to explain his relevance in her life. Feels again the echo of his mouth. Remembers the throbbing certainty that of the many things wrong in the scenario that _this_ was right.

Reluctantly she acknowledges that the story doesn't end when her memory does. That she may have cracked open the door but it was another woman who stalked right in. And so she lets her mind wander. Allows the pain. The misery. Fills in the gaps of his words. Wonders how he felt to be with someone less broken. More aligned to him. In her apartment; in the silence uninterrupted by his calls, she is deafened by the reverberating echoes of this other woman. As ever he has been honest about the practicalities. She knows they were together. Knows they slept together. As ever he is slippery about the the parts that matter. Did he love her? Could he love her? How did he not know? Did he know and did it not matter?

She cannot cope with this idea the others have that this other woman - this woman who stole her life is an alternate her. Altliv – they have taken to calling her. A friendly, harmless name. One that sticks in her throat. The red headed beast was not friendly. Was not her. She was an assassin. A cold blooded killer sent to destroy everything. Sent to kill hope. Sent to kill the future. Sent to kill the world.

Even now the stain of the other woman is everywhere. She can see her, at first it was at the corner of her eye but now the image is now her almost constant companion. Thankfully unlike her memory of the 'not real Peter' she doesn't speak .At least not yet. But disconcertingly as the weeks, and then the months go by she appears to be becoming less translucent... more real. And as she solidifies, becomes less diaphanous, other things become clearer also. No longer is she simply a mirror image in 'have a go hero' clothes with a bad dye job. No, now she seems softer around the eyes, her hair and skin gleam like never before and her middle is thickening. As she observes this she feels the spike of jealously hit once more. She acknowledges that this is the toughest of times for humankind and yet the shimmering red headed vision forces her to reflect on herself. As she does so she feels this thing her friends from collage call a biological clock. And it is ticking. Loud. Unquaveringly.

The other Olivia is not there, yet there. Sitting on the other sofa, smug smile on her face, hand wrapped protectively around her belly. She had been usurped once more.


	2. Chapter 2

part 2 - A second Olivia speaks.

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Her world is degrading. In her job she sees it more than most. Sees the fabric of life unravel. Knows that any day could be last. Not just for her but for everyone. Despite this knowledge she has never been a quitter, never even considered the idea of giving up. Of giving in. Instead she lives her life on the edge, adrenalin powering her. Believing that that simply fighting the good fight meant that success would eventually follow. And that success – that wining would be everything.

Now she knows differently. She has faced the enemy, invaded their world. Breathed their air, walked their streets. She has drank their coffee. She has stared into the whites of their eyes, seen them for who they are. She has infraltrated them, worked alongside them. She has known them. She has undermined their efforts, attacked them, stolen from them and she can not help but think it was all for nothing. She doesn't feel like she, like her side, are any closer to success and she feels curiously short changed. Hears the echo of him and wonders whether wining was perhaps not the point at all. Like she was fighting for the wrong goal.

She has never been the kind of girl who dreamed of forevers. It isn't that she doesn't believe in happily ever after she just isn't sure that there is one for her. Isn't sure, having seen what love did to her sister that she'd want the all encompassing foreverness even if the opportunity arose. Not that she's been celibate or even single. No. There has been a procession of Mr Right for Now's who have entertained and still left her enough room in her life for her own things. Aspirations. Work. Goals. Now it all feels surprisingly empty. Like independence on her own terms wasn't quite the prize it seemed.

Despite it all, despite everything she knew; had seen, she Fell. So obvious. Too obvious. It built quickly, crescendoed before she'd even realised. She felt it start when he first looked up at her from under his lids before swinging his entire penetrating gaze to her in a bar with heat that made her squirm. It hit her in the pit of her stomach as she pulled him to a dance floor, staggering slightly in her urgency to wrap her arms around his neck. She felt it burn her when she straddled him, trapped in a moment when finding out if he tasted as good as he smelled was almost more important than not being caught. When she finally pushed him down on the bed, moving over him in the dark proving Newton wrong didn't come into it. Not even a little. What surprised her after the waves of lust had been sated is that she wasn't. That unlike her time a string of others she was still falling. That feeling his arms wrapped around her after a run in with a suspect was as much comfort as it was a turn on; that she wanted to be comforted by this man. Lazy breakfasts in bed and early evenings in front of the television weren't just about keeping a track on him they were about keeping him with her. Keeping him close. She knows she should hate herself. Be consumed by self loathing for having lost her focus, her drive. Knows that for an independent woman such as herself the childish hope of keeping the moment forever should be abhorred. Knows most of all the fact that what she wanted from him was something she had stolen from another. After all the other Olivia, the pale, haunted Olivia had chased him across the divide of the universe; fought for him only to be replaced without a word.

Yet no, she is unrepentant. Her mission no longer seems so important to her but lamenting it would be foolish. She has been greeted as a hero and does nothing to suggest that the truth might be more malleable than that. The other Olivia is barely worth a second thought – her escape reluctantly impresses but any thoughts of her lead to jealousy. Depression. Despondency. After all no matter what has happened one Olivia Dunham is with him now; whilst one is alone.

She tortures herself now...imagines...dreams. She remembers with startlingly vivid recall the lift of his mouth as he smirked at her, the raw challenge in his eyes, the warmth of his caress, his oh so slightly calloused hands. The feel of his mouth. Somedays she imagines that she can feel the echo of it still. Retains the utter certainty that of the many things wrong in the scenario that _they_ were right. Reluctantly she acknowledges that the story doesn't end when her memory does. That she may have cracked open the door but it was another woman who is there now to take her place. And so she lets her mind wander. Allows the pain of imagining him with the blonde shadow. Can all but see the mane of pale hair against his chest. Can imagine the solemn, wounded eyes meeting his as he says the three words she never got to hear.

She wakes one night heart pounding, sheets knotted around her sweating body. She remembers something new. Remembers the night when the other Olivia broke into her home, gatecrashed her world. Until now she has tried to forget being bested by the other woman, does not want to acknowledge her as stronger, better in any way. Now she thinks backwards to the missed doctors appointment, the annual contraceptive jab and wonders. Hopes.

With her hand cupped unconsciously around her stomach she wills her thoughts to the other Olivia. Wills her to keep him still, keep him safe. Hates the knowledge that she is dependent upon her adversary to hold him steady. Until she can come back for him.


End file.
